


Morning Bird

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>If you set me free, I will not run...</i> TBA era, four months after Montreal, 1992. Copenhagen in December.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Bird

**Author's Note:**

> Sade started this; Tom Waits finished it.

The dirty bandages fell apart underneath his fingers as Lars gently removed them from James's arm. Four months later and his stomach still wretched whenever he saw James's pink skin. The healing process went well. James could play again, had been doing so for the past two months. But the skin said otherwise.

Lars bit his lips as he peeled away the dead brown pieces, massaged the cream into pale knuckles and raw palms. He willed himself into a calm silence, focusing on his work, not on fresh painful memories.

James sat on the edge of the bed, fortified in place, his face stone-walled like his emotions. He never winced, never teared-up when Lars touched sensitive areas. 

New bandages soaked up the cream, settled into place, molding around James's arm. Lars sighed where he kneeled on the floor, holding James's hand in both of his, the brace secured. It was finished. 

James yanked his hand away. "Thanks."

Lars stayed on the ground while James stomped around the room, gathering his things. He finally rested his head in his hands when James left for food. 

December in Copenhagen gave way to good times. Christmas festivities littered the streets like childish laughter. Usually Lars fiddled himself with family activities, birthday preparations, last-minute gift shopping. He'd call his little cousins and older ones, his grandparents, uncle and aunt, mother and father; head to Frederiksberg or Hellerup, out to Roskilde or farther to Århus.

He stared out the hotel window in the direction where Tivoli's beautiful lights lit up his home. His bundled-up fellow kin dressed in bright colors in the light snow, ice skates over shoulders, hot drinks in hands, all smiling. 

"You didn't have to come with me," Lars told James a few nights ago. 

"You think I wanted to? You're the one who kept bitching at me to experience home in December with you. I'm tired of hearing it."

James laid on the bed still clothed and flipped through the channels without care. Two empty bottles of beer rested beside him, a half-eaten pizza on his chest. 

Lars sat at the end of the bed, dressed in his robe. "We can leave."

"And waste the money we spent booking this shit in advance? Hell no."

"You just said you didn't want to be here."

"Because I'm tired of hearing you fucking bitch."

"I promise not to bitch about anything, okay? I just want..." Lars stood up from the bed, shaking his head. "Nevermind."

"Want what?"

"Forget it."

"Fine. Whatever."

Four months ago, Lars would've fought James. His old bark-and-bite would've sunk its teeth into James's throat and strangled strength bone dry. Now he hesitated. Action didn't come before thought anymore. Emotion won, but not in anger. It sickened him. He was a pitiful carpet for James's boots. 

When James left the room, Lars never followed. He incarcerated himself in the room and waited. They walked the streets when James felt like it. The cowboy hat kept the strangers at bay like his snarl. Lars watched fans and friends alike stand across streets, cities and worlds, while James pulled him away. And he let it all happen. 

James never understood what they said in his mother tongue. Stupid American, look at him stomping around, thinking he owns our country. Get out of here, piece of shit. Go back home. You're not one of us. Lars didn't need to hear their words when he saw their looks. But James never noticed. He busied himself with whatever he wanted, and Lars tailored himself to those wants. 

The closer Christmas came, the more Copenhagen lit up like Lars remembered from childhood. But he stayed beside James. He did whatever James asked. He never left for Tivoli where his little cousins begged to see him. He didn't go ice skating at Kongens Nytorv with his uncle and aunt where they waited anxiously for him. He traded in rødgrød, brunkager and glög for pizza, beer and sex. There would be no Christmas tree, no family stories, no decorations or smiles. He'd wake up Christmas morning to dirty bandages needing a change like their dirty sheets, drained beer bottles and an empty bed. 

"Leave him," Stein said over the phone Christmas day. "He's killing you."

"He nearly died."

"That doesn't give him free reign to treat you like shit. Teach him a lesson."

James laughed at the television, spilling beer all over the bed. He laid naked on the bed, sated from sex. Lars closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, huddled in his bathrobe. 

"I can't do that to him."

"Come on, Lars. This isn't you. Pack your bags, get out and come up to Roskilde. We can head out to Odense, visit some of the cousins out there, or even up to Nordjylland. We'll have fun."

"I can't leave him."

His cousin sighed. "Stop being so dramatic. I'm not I'm asking you to leave him permanently. I'm telling this for your sake, ok? You haven't been acting yourself since the accident. He's using you, Lars."

"He needs me."

"And it's obvious he doesn't know that."

"But--"

"He's going to keep using you until he's healed, and what makes no sense to me is that you know it. You flat out know when he's fine again, he'll throw you away like you're nothing. He doesn't need you as much as you need him."

He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Lars ended the call. He slid down to the floor and curled into the corner of the wall and the tub, his forehead pressed into his knees. James's laughs trickled into the upsetting hollowness of the bathroom. 

They fucked twice during the day in between Clint Eastwood and John Wayne. Die Hard 3 played while James ordered up chicken wings and beer. Lars curled up on the corner of the bed, his back red from scratches and bites. 

Outside the world looked so white. Christmas waited for him. So did his birthday. He saw fresh gingerbread and cocoa, steam rising from vendor carts. His little cousins waved him down like his uncle and aunt, his mother and father. Come home, they cried. Come back. We love you Lars. We miss you. 

James shook his shoulder. Spicy barbecue wafted underneath his nose. "You want some?"

He shut his eyes and turned his head away from the plate. 

"Fuck you then." 

James shoved his shoulder. Lars laid on his side, hands clinging to his pillow, as James noisily ate beside him. Bruce Willis killed a few villains. Explosions went off. Bad music, cheesy dialogue, action-packed fun. 

When the movie ended, Lars tried again. "Hey, James?"

James lips popped off the beer bottle. "Yeah, what?"

"I was wondering... could we go to Tivoli tonight?"

"What the fuck for?"

"Well, it's Christmas evening and there's a lot to do there. We could just walk around... don't have to play any games or go on rides."

"No. We'd have to beat off the fucking fans from autographs. I'm not in the goddamn mood for that shit."

"But... my family will be there--"

"Fuck that!" James scrambled off the bed, throwing the beer bottle onto the pile of dirty clothes and empty cans. "That wasn't the deal. You said this trip was just you and me. Not you, me and your entire family. I'm not going to spend my Christmas with those assholes."

Lars rolled over and sat up, his face red like his eyes. "What did they ever do to you?"

James found another bottle in the fridge. He twisted off the top and slammed the door. "I just don't want to be around them, okay? I don't want to be around anyone until we're home."

"But this is my home."

James laughed. "Boy do I know that." He chugged half the beer. "Do you know how out-of-place I feel here? Every time we came here to record, every time we go on tour and you insist we get a hotel here--"

He beat his fist into the sheets. "You could've said no. Every _time_ you could've said--"

"Yeah right. And hear your bitching? I swear, you fucking bitch and moan worse than a woman sometimes. 'Why can't we stay in Copenhagen, we have the money, it's not too expensive, I can get us cheap rates.' Do you think I really wanted to be here for fucking Christmas? I'd rather be at home in the Bay Area watching a game rather than stuck in this godforsaken country watching movies, eating pizza and fucking you all the damn time." 

Lars scrambled out of the bed right to the dresser. He fished out whatever clothes he found and slipped them on fast. 

James grabbed his arm. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

He yanked it away. "Fuck you. Find some other bitch to fuck."

"That won't be hard." James chuckled. "Kind of been missing pussy."

Lars dropped his boots. 

James skidded across the carpet, his jaw smarting from Lars's fist. 

He shouted in pain when Lars grabbed his bandaged hand and squeezed it hard, pinning him to the floor.

"Fine then. Go find some slut. Let's see if she'll sit in that bed for days on end open for any and every type of sex you want. Let's see if she'll make sure you bathe, eat and sleep correctly. If she'll fucking clean that fucking hand of yours, replace the bandages and go with you to every single fucking therapy session, not once ever complaining because she gives a fucking shit about your fucking well being, not just for your money or fame or fucking name. While we're at it, let's see if she can fucking drum-- I mean since I'm such a shit drummer all the time as you love to point out, she can't be any fucking worse than me. And if she can do all that, if she'll do all the things I do for your sorry ass, then God bless her. Because I can't fucking do it anymore. I'm through. Fuck you James. Fuck. You."

He stood up and kicked James in the stomach, left him there as he grabbed his boots and coat and ran out into the winter cold. 

Tivoli Gardens looked exactly like it did since he last came here eight years ago. People wandered around with big smiles, from children to parents, couples and friends. Trees lit up in different colors, decorated in ornaments and trinkets little ones placed on branches. The snow-capped buildings sported Christmas calls and the bright Ferris Wheel turned around and around, undisturbed by the weather.

The winter cold hurt worse than before. He wasn't properly prepared, the shoes still unlaced and his jacket wrinkled and unbuttoned. But Lars walked on. He ate brunkager and drank glög. He sat on a bench and watched children play in the snow. He looked around and saw his fellow Danes enjoy the festive evening with their loved ones. 

Lars found the lake with the lit-up willow trees surrounded by couples and family members. Some kissed and touched. Some embraced and held. 

Eight years ago turned into today when he felt the ghost of James's drunk lips over his. Their first kiss. 

He spent Christmas day hungover on too much wine in some cheap hotel he found by sunrise. The curtains stayed closed; the television remained off; the phone hung away from the receiver. 

Lars moved from the bed to piss, answer the door, take food and tell the housecleaning not today. The rest of the time he laid face first into his pillow, empty wine bottles cluttering the sheets. 

The morning of his birthday he booked a one-way ticket out of Copenhagen to Johannesburg. No one would find him there. They'd expect him to go back to the States or somewhere else in Europe, not clear across to South Africa. The only person who might consider the area was his father, and even then Torben wouldn't bother him. What scared him was Torben possibly telling James. But that wasn't enough to stop him from telling the ticket lady his credit card information.

His flight wasn't until midday. Lars killed the time walking the streets of his home. He'd come back, but it wouldn't be the same, and he'd never return around Christmas. The holiday was tainted now, same with his birthday.

Tivoli was empty at this hour. No lights illuminated the buildings and the trees. The vendors glared at him over their scarves, starting up their grills and machines, the only people around. Everything looked dead. 

The lake reflected the grey sky, the lifeless willow trees, himself. Green eyes, bloodshot from too much restless sleep and too much wine, stared through himself like he was a ghost wandering the Earth for peace. 

He sat on the stone edge. His fingertips grazed the water's surface. The ripples erased his reflection. 

When the water settled, James's sneer appeared.

Lars recoiled his hand into his lap. 

He sighed and closed his eyes.

Behind his lids, James snarled at him, called him names, drank beer, ate pizza. Bottles piled up in the corner with the boxes and the canisters, Die Hard played on the television, and James's body slid over his, while Christmas came and went outside their window.

His hands balled into fists.

The abrupt chirping of morning birds drew his attention upwards. He watched them performed a yellow dance in the grey sky until they disappeared behind the walls, leaving Tivoli behind them. And Lars stood up, following their lead.

His home began to wake up as he walked down the street, the businesses opening and the people leaving for work. He headed away from the bustle of the world into a quiet residential area, wanting more time to himself before he headed to the airport.

Morning birds sung their song in the trees, in the sky, but they couldn't win against James's voice. It haunted him, his words, his taunts, and he had to break the chains and escape. He had to leave, else he'd be caged forever and he refused to let that-- 

The sound of a car skidding to a halt echoed as loud as the hit.

Lars gasped.

Down the street, a frantic man exited a car. 

His legs moved quicker than his brain. He ran ahead, circled around the car and paused, looking down.

A yellow bird laid on its side, its orange feet curled up.

Lars planted his knees in the concrete snow, hands hovering over flickering yellow feathers. 

There was no movement.

"I-I didn't mean it," the driver stuttered. "It came out of nowhere."

Lars's lips trembled like his fingers as he touched the delicate body. 

Flapping wings buzzed near his ear and his fingers jumped back. 

Another other yellow bird settled besides the unmoving one.

It looked up at him.

The driver rambled on. Lars paid no attention. His focus stayed on little black eyes as he gently picked up the injured bird in his hands like broken china.

Lars ran his fingers through the soft plumage. Hope withered away as it made no sound. 

The other bird watched on, not moving.

His green eyes fluttered closed as he cupped his palm over the bird and pressed it to his chest. 

A weak croon warmed his fingertips.

Lars jumped on the miracle. With the driver holding the other bird in the passengers seat, Lars drove as fast as he could to the animal hospital. The doctors took the injured one away with the other.

"He'll be okay," the vet said later. "The impact must've shocked the little thing. It's a miracle you weren't driving that fast."

The driver walked away guilt free. Lars stayed behind and watched the yellow birds together in their cage, the other bird never leaving the injured one's side. It stayed there, beak in plumage, not paying attention to the strange people around them. They were together. That's all that mattered. 

Tears weighed on his eyes like his chest as he left the hospital. Outside there was no grey sky. It changed to a brilliant, bright blue. 

Lars checked his watch. Midday had arrived. The flight to Johannesburg took off in half an hour. He had no luggage, so he had no need to go back to the hotel for anything. A lift of his hand and one taxi ride later, Copenhagen and he would disappear. 

He did lift his hand, and he did take the taxi ride, and Copenhagen disappeared behind him as he entered the old hotel.

James looked like shit. Unkempt blonde hair unwashed for days flowed ragged over his shoulders, tattered like his dirty shirt and underwear. Pizza boxes and beer cans littered the unmade bed. Bandages, tape and medicine circled James where he sat. James's burned hand shook on his naked thigh, a rough cotton ball digging into patchy red skin.

Blue eyes watered. The cotton ball dropped to the floor. 

Lars quietly shut and locked the door. 

He knelt on the floor between James's legs, cradling the burned arm in his hands. His fingers skipped over the new bandage down to James's fingers. 

"Why'd you come back?" James whispered. 

Lars ran his fingertips under James's. They were rough, strong. He pressed his lips to them.

They trembled. 

He lifted his eyes up and looked past all of James's barriers, all of his walls. Beyond the growls and the snarls, the insults and the snide remarks, there was a silver cage marred by time, neglected by life and abused by loved ones. It surrounded his heart, the core of who James was, but Lars never had the key to open it. For years he couldn't see inside the cage, didn't know what waited inside, what animal he'd release.

Lars looked into James's scared blue eyes and finally looked into the shadows. 

Green eyes welled up with tears.

Inside the cage was a yellow bird with blue eyes and singed feathers, crying a sad song for help.

James shook as Lars touched the lock.

"No... please..."

The bird quivered in fear. 

Lars brushed his fingertips over James's cheek.

"Shh."

He gently unlocked the cage. 

James's tears dripped over his lips. 

"Don't..."

Lars's hands reached in.

James gasped.

Gentle hands cupped the yellow bird with delicate, loving care.

Lars pressed James's head to his warm chest, over his heart. 

"Shh. It's okay."

Lars brushed his lips over yellow.

"I won't leave you again."

Blue eyes pleaded. For him.

Lars smiled.

"I promise."

James closed his eyes.

Their lips met as the cage disappeared.

He nursed his bird back to health.


End file.
